


your heart (like birdsong, echoes)

by girl412



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Fluff, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Listen this is domestic as hell, M/M, POV Steve Rogers, basically they live happily ever after, bucky and steve are like peter & shuri's unofficial guardians i don't make the rules, i think that's what we all need right now, i tried to make this soft, they're in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 04:02:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18358214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl412/pseuds/girl412
Summary: Just another day in the life of Steve Rogers & Bucky Barnes.Or, if love is a feeling, it's unending, it's in this flat, it's right here & right now.





	your heart (like birdsong, echoes)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goaliemagic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goaliemagic/gifts).



> i wrote this for my best friend but i hope all of you enjoy it, too. i've never written them before, but hopefully you can't tell?

Steve wakes up first.

Bucky’s still asleep, curled into himself. His hair forming a messy halo of sorts on the pillow, his throat looking strangely vulnerable in the light, like a swan’s neck or something. His hands are in fists and there’s an uneasy little frown on his face. Steve considers pressing a kiss to the side of his mouth, but refrains – there was a time he tried that and got hit in the face instead of a thank you. Whatever else has happened to Bucky, his reflexes are razor-sharp.

Steve carefully puts on one of their more indie records, filling the room with soft guitar music. He can only hope the song will permeate into Bucky’s subconscious, take that little frown away and smoothen the wrinkles from his brow. 

He walks into the kitchen, the padding of his feet sounding almost ghostly in the dim silence of the apartment. He smiles reflectively to himself as he sees their faces smiling back at him from the arsenal of photos they’d put on the fridge with magnets. There’s one of Bucky with Shuri, one of Peter holding his shield. There are even a few from the war, though they don’t talk about that. Sometimes if Bucky’s feeling it, he’ll clap Steve’s shoulder gently, laugh ruggedly. “ _Little Stevie Rogers,_ ” he’ll say. “ _All grown up_.” 

Steve fries eggs deftly, his hands working on autopilot. He puts bread into the toaster, remembers that weird night when they’d gone clubbing with Sam and somehow ended up in the park with an ukulele belting out songs nobody listened to. Bucky’d laughed until his throat was hoarse, and something about the weight and authenticity of it had soothed some part of Steve that he didn’t know was hurting until that very moment.

He pours the coffee into two little ceramic mugs, puts the food on a tray, carefully fills a bowl with plums and walks back into the bedroom. 

Bucky isn’t awake yet, but it’s clear he isn’t going to be asleep much longer. His movements are less slumber-driven, Steve can tell. He’s on the brink of waking up, and maybe that’s what makes Steve decide to wake him up. Leaving the tray on the table, he puts his hands on Bucky’s shoulders gently, grips them tightly.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hey yourself,” Bucky murmurs back. Gently, almost disbelievingly, he puts one of his hands on Steve’s face, traces the lines and inclines with one finger. 

Steve can’t help the soft smile that incites. He gets the tray over, sets it on the bed between them. Bucky doesn’t say thank you, but his smile conveys it. He takes a sip of the coffee, a bite of the bread, after which he picks up a plum and bites into it clumsily, juice running down his chin. 

Steve does his best not to let Bucky see that he’s on the verge of laughing.

Bucky just smirks. 

They finish breakfast together, after which they do the washing up. Bucky washes easily, soaping the dishes while whistling something that sounds vaguely like Pink Floyd and rinsing them before handing them to Steve, who silently dries them with the fluffy towel that Peter had gifted them as a housewarming gift. It has the American flag on it, which is probably reflective of the sense of humour of kids these days.

Steve wonders if it should be considered weird, the sort of easy companionship they’ve fallen into so easily, all over again. The sort of love they have now is more quiet, like two people who’ve been together for decades. They know each other’s tells intuitively, know how to take care of each other without any words. 

Sometimes, Steve reflects, as Bucky leans against his shoulder later in the evening, holding a science journal (Shuri’d probably published something recently, and sure she wasn’t their kid, but she _could_ be, with how proud Bucky always was) – sometimes, it’s like all those lost years and all that grieving never really happened. It’s easy to forget they have war trauma. Steve closes his eyes, presses his body against Bucky’s so that their edges and corners slot together. Bucky puts an arm around him easily, kisses the top of his head. 

The radio’s broadcasting something, some news about Spiderman and a heist downtown. Apparently he’s saved the day again, which is honestly no surprise whatsoever.

“The kids are alright,” Bucky murmurs to himself. 

Steve hums in acknowledgement, turning to face him. He thinks of what Shuri and Peter have accomplished, thinks of what he was doing at that age.

Bucky raises an eyebrow, no words needed to communicate what’s going through his head, which is almost certainly _stop brooding, old man._

He knits his fingers with Steve’s and leads him to the bedroom. 

And this is another thing that’s gotten better with the years – the way they know each other’s bodies like habits. Steve runs his hands through Bucky’s hair as Bucky mouths at his neck gently, pressing Steve down and aligning their hips. Gently, taking their time – they have all the time in the world, now – they get each other out of their clothes. Bucky’s eyes sparkle with mischief and life, and Steve feels it settle in him somehow, making his bones feel lighter somehow, making him feel floaty and light-headed. 

Afterwards, once it’s over, Steve moves so that his head’s directly above Bucky’s heartbeat, closes his eyes and listens. He doesn’t say _I’m so grateful it’s over, so grateful I have you_ but he doesn’t need to. He knows Bucky knows. Bucky’s hands are tracing patterns on Steve’s back, distractedly but unfocusedly with the sort of comfort that comes from knowing something with certainty, familiarity and intimacy.

He doesn’t say _I’m yours._ He doesn’t need to.

A little later into the night, he moves the curtain aside so they can see the stars. Bucky sighs, presses his mouth against the soft bit of Steve’s shoulder. 

“Love you,” he murmurs. 

Steve feels oddly grounded, as if tethered by those two words, as if they’re the only things keeping him in his body, in his skin, on the planet.

“Dammit, Bucky,” he curses, his voice catching in his throat. He shifts against Bucky so that his chin is on the top of his head. “I’ve _always_ loved you.” 

Bucky’s soft laugh sounds like thunder. He doesn’t say anything in response, but one of his arms tightens its grip on Steve.

There, silhouetted by the moonlight, there’s something almost surreal about the moment. Steve reminds himself that he has this now, that he will have this for the rest of his life, here, with Bucky. They sit there together, the night still young. Neither of them feel particularly old. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, hope you liked this xxx


End file.
